It has taken two days to reach dear Cousin Egburt's digs on the south bank of Loch Ness. It’s a small affair, a gothic castle with nigh on 500 acres containing some of the best fishing, shooting and stalking to be had in Scotland.
The black sheep of our family had laid on a veritable spread, following the Haggis, a bowl of Cullen Skink broth after which we delighted in fine venison steak the donor of which had been felled earlier that day. The Piper played and we drank Whisky late into the night, Egburt suggested a game of cards, knowing him as we all do, we declined to a man.
I staggered up the stone staircase to bed. A top knotch evening, a Burns night to remember, I‘d say, What! C.F.
Amongst the reams of post that included an invitation from The Royal Geographical Society to submit a treatise on the Sami peoples of Northern Europe, I was delighted to discover a note from cousin Egburt suggesting I join him for a few days shooting at his pile north of the border. C.F.